


Civil Dawn

by Spylace



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Because if no one will make me an alternate ending to origins, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Everybody Lives, I will have to make one myself, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, M/M, Mpreg, Political Alliances, Politics, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-04 03:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: With the Blight over and the Archdemon slain, the world takes the path of least resistance.Alistair is the heir to Feralden.Aedan is a teyrnling, second only to kings.Their love is an inconvenience.





	1. Act I. King

**Author's Note:**

> The Alistair/Male Cousland mpreg fic no one even asked for.

They agreed. No matter what happened, the Archdemon had to die.

On their last night before battle, he and Alistair fought. They slung accusations, poison that had been festering and waiting to be lanced like an ugly boil, and silverware, hard enough that even Shale made herself scarce from the camp.

They went to bed angry but they didn’t go alone.

“Dammit Alistair, don’t be an idiot.” Aedan ripped the leather from his wrist, the shock of layered enchantments leaving his skin feeling chilled and rubbed raw. “You’re Maric’s son. You’re the living heir to Feralden. The country would be in shambles if they lost you.”

He pulled the light mail and discarded it on the ground. His mother would be appalled at the poor treatment of his armor but he could be forgiven. They only had one night after all. Come dawn, one of them would be dead. He didn’t relish it being him but losing Alistair would feel worse. Not for the first time, doubt gnawed at his belly like many pink nugs in the cellar. He heard Alistair swallow when he dropped his breeches and seriously considered tying the other man up and leaving him in bed.

“The country’s been doing fine for twenty years without me.”

Alistair dodged a boot to his face and caught him before he could throw the next. They rolled on top of the blanket pile and grappled, neither gaining much advantage.

“And Highever?” Alistair reminded him with a raised eyebrow. “Our first line of defense against Orlais?”

His heart thudded in his ear.

“My brother lives.”

His voice was smaller than he would have liked and it hurt the way Alistair closed his teeth around his throat, silencing him but not quite hard enough to break the skin.

Gloved fingers brushed against his pebbled nipples and he arched into the damp shirt and hard muscle. His heart beat rabbit-quick when the hands were replaced by lips, lips by skin and Alistair licked, kissed, pet and cossetted him lower and lower until he felt as though he would faint from the heat. 

Aedan squirmed at the spill of oil at his entrance. He was tense, his body spoiling for a fight. They had always done it face to face. Not like this. They had never done it like this.

“It would kill me to lose you.”

“Don’t you think I feel the same way about you?”

The first thrust wet his eyes. Alistair was angry. So was he. All he wanted to do was take and take and take. Maybe find a door on the other man’s golden skin, spread his ribs and live there. He still had the rose Alistair gave him, all the way from a small town called Lothering. He’d given it to Leliana for safekeeping pressed inside a records about mabari bloodlines. 

because no matter what happened, the Archdemon had to die.

Leliana would know what to do.

“Shh.” Alistair soothed, hand almost burning against his heaving flank. “Aedan are you alright? Maker, I’ve upset you.”

“No! Don’t stop.” He rocked back, finding an easier position for his knees. “I want. I want it to hurt.”

They why hung in the air.

“I don’t.” Alistair said after a moment. But his fingers left bruises bracketing Aedan’s narrow hips, patterns in his lower back and up. He pushed in further until he bottomed out. Aedan whined. He felt so full. “Maker, I want you.” Alistair swore. “I want you like this forever.”

 

Seizing the chance, Alistair lunged. The Archdemon twisted sideways and his gleaming sword tore through the sinuous neck. But not deep enough to strike it dead.

Blood sprayed into his helmet, black and foul. Aedan saw Alistair stumble backwards against its sickness.

The Archdemon opened its jaws wide.

“No!”

His vision briefly flashed white as the Shriek buried its claws in his spine. But the arrow had already left its quiver and the bow. It flew true. The Archdemon screamed as it went blind in one eye. Purple flames rolled across the tower and the Shriek fell dead, burnt to cinders.

Aedan notched another arrow and aimed.

Morrigan froze a Hurlock in a pillar of ice before it knocked his skull off his shoulders. His second arrow, stained black from one of Zevran’s concoctions, went down the Archdemon’s gullet.

The Archdemon collapsed, foaming taint from between its teeth. Aedan hobbled to Alistair’s side, a respectful distance away as the Archdemon surged upwards, managed a few paces and then laid down again.

Everyone gathered to surround it. Every mage, elf, dwarf, Templar and men who agreed that their world was worth fighting for.

“ _Stop_.” The taint allowed them to hear her voice. It might have been beautiful a long time ago. The archives in the Orzammer Shaperate named her a god of beauty. The Archdemon whispered, “ _Let me go warden. You have my word I will not return to this place_.”  

“You hear that Aedan? The essence of evil _promises_ she won’t come back to eat us.”

“Good thing we’re here to make sure.”

Alistair chuckled as the Archdemon shrieked her impotent threats, the taint pouring from the holes in her gut, her skull and the folds in her scales. When he raised his sword again, Aedan reached out and wrapped his hand around Oathkeeper's pummel behind the metal heel.

"We do it together."

Alistair's face lit up like a boy's. His royal inheritance couldn't sway him but the promise of forever could. It lodged a boulder in his gullet, right under his stomach. 

"Ready?"  

Only Morrigan knew what was about to happen. She caught his eyes before conceding a brief nod. It might have even been approval.

“ _Do you think that this world would accept you?!_ ”

Steel rubbed against leather. 

“ _You will sire no children!_ ” She cursed at Aedan, her tail swiveling promisingly. At Alistair, she belched a gout of violet flames. It dispersed harmlessly off his armor. “ _Your women will be barren!_ ”

Alistair winked.

The Archdemon died under their sword. Skull split between its eyes. They felt it when it went. For a brief moment, their heartbeats were joined as pressure rode up the enchanted steel. His grip tightened on the leather pommel, his gloves peeling back until it was destroyed completely.

Lightning lanced down from the blood-red sky. It might have been the Maker's approval. It might have been something else. Aedan welcomed it. As long as it was him and not Alistair; as long as it was him and not the man he loved the most in the world. 

And then it was over.

When he opened his eyes, it was as though someone had taken a rag and wiped the glass clean. The dark film at the edge of his vision receded to show him a world freed from the Blight. He fully expected to see Andraste or even the Maker standing next to him but gauntleted hands clapped the sides of his face and pulled him close. 

Alistair kissed him messy and hard. No finesse. His was not the touch of a blushing maiden allowing favors. His was teeth and heat, the foul aftertaste of the taint where he hadn't thought to wipe it off his face.

He gagged as Alistair threw his head back and laughed. 

Aedan looked in awe. He had never seen the other man so joyous. He scrubbed his mouth and they kissed again. He could hear Morrigan roll her eyes.

“Well done.” Morrigan said coolly. “You actually succeeded. I supposed your choice wasn’t entirely unfortunate.”

“Didn’t I tell you it was going to be alright?” Aedan asked peaceably and Morrigan sniffed.

“You said no such thing. Oh don’t give me that look. You are quite unbearable.” But she matched his smile tooth for tooth like a fox that had gotten into the hen house. They understood each other, he and Morrigan. She was impressed that she'd been proven wrong, that her mother had been proven wrong. 

Pouting, Alistair tugged and Aedan's hand and pulled it into the light.

"Hold on," He squinted at the barred wrist. "What happened?" 

“Oh dear.” Wynne hurried over and Alistair shifted automatically to give her room, and to cover Aedan from prying eyes.

All around them, people were cheering.

Aedan turned his left hand over. There were lines inscribed on his skin. Like tattoos of the wild men who supposedly lived in the woods surrounding Orzammar. It went all the way up to his elbow, cutting black lines over his veins. Alistair made a noise of complaint when he found that the lines couldn't be rubbed clean. 

"It's magic." Wynne said grimly. "Though it doesn't seem to be doing any harm."

Alistair too had patterns going up the back of his right hand. They matched, line for line, to the ones on Aedan's opposite hand.

“Curiouser and curioser.” Morrigan commented. Her yellow eyed flickered, betraying the knowledge she held. “By killing the Archdemon together, you seemed to have avoided your predecessors’ fate.”

Aedan shrugged. If tattoos were the price for keeping him and Alistair breathing, he wouldn't complain. It was a price well paid. 

Alistair dropped to one knee beside him. The weight of his massive armor made the earth echo like bells after Sunday service. 

Everyone turned to look at them.

“Aedan Cousland, marry me.”

 

Ha. If only real life was that simple.

Eamon had taken a hard look at their tangled fingers and dismissed it out of hand, nonchalant, but for the volume of movement as he spoke over them to express his absolute _relief_ at how everyone was alive. Aedan had grown so pale that Alistair feared that he was about to faint. He was going to joke about it but the other man squeezed his hand to quiet him.

“You are king." Eamon said sternly. "You must think about the future.”

“You mean children. Men have mistresses.” Alistair pointed out. “ _Kings_ have mistresses—I think it’s worked out quite well for me.”

Teagan croaked like he caught a toad in his throat.

He shrugged.

What had Aedan called him? A royal bastard?

“It could be a new tradition." He continued cheerfully, throwing every bit of kindness and gratitude he's ever felt for the arl back in the old man's blanched face. "A bastard putting another bastard on the throne. No need to fight or argue about which heir has whose blood. We could put it to a vote.”

Because Aedan was his. After Duncan and Olstagar and the darkspawn, he wasn't about to just give up on him. Alistair only mentioned a few hundred times on their way back to the Eamon's Denerim estate where the damage had been the least. Their friends had been overjoyed to see them. Darkspawn take it, even Sten had cracked a smile.

Bloody politics. This was why he hadn’t wanted to be king. The great arls would eat him alive.

Aedan squeezed his hand once more and let go.

He blinked.

Aedan let him go like he was a chantry orphan who’d been found with his fingers in the alms box.

Alistair turned to look at him.

“Aedan...?”

“Lord Eamon is right." Aedan said in a daze, pale as washed linens against his red hair. "I overstepped.” After a moment, he added, “I apologize.”

 

Aedan came to him in a sneaky way that made him irritable because it had Zevran written all over it.

“Oh it’s you. Did you know that I’m getting married?" Alistair told the air nonchalant, crossing his arms across the barrel of his chest. Just like some noble whelp to slink back in the night. He'd been warned back at the Chantry. Maybe the sisters had a point. "To Cailan’s wife no less. We are to have a happy nuptial in Arl Eamon’s estate while the royal palace is refitted.”

“I’m glad.” Now that he was in the light, he could see that Aedan’s eyes were red-rimmed. As though he'd been crying.

Alistair knew that couldn't be true because Aedan was a noble, son of a teyrn. And they were a bloodless lot.

Anger lit him like the enchantments on Oathkeeper.

“Why?” He hissed. “Why are you doing this?”

Aedan let out a small huff as though he’d been struck. Like he was at camp in the throes of another nightmare about the darkspawn and it made Alistair want to go to him. To draw the other man into his arms and draw the poisoned fear away.

“We can’t.”

“I would have fought for you. I have. I would have given up the throne in a heartbeat, why didn’t you fight for me?”

Aedan didn't answer. Instead, jaws tight, he asked, “Do you know what would happen if you abdicated?"

Thrown off by the non sequitur, Alistair thought for a moment and answered slowly. "I quit. Anora becomes queen."

"But you are still Maric's son. You will always have the stronger claim. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir was born common. As long as you're alive, you are a threat to her reign."

“So I’ll promise to stay away. Doing Grey Warden-y things.”

Aedan closed in. In spite of himself, Alistair melted and leaned into the other man's touch. He chastised himself for being weak but he couldn’t help it. Aedan was Aedan. And Maker forgive him, Alistair loved the dutiful idiot.

“Bann Perrin was the son of Bann Gan Perrin’s third wife." Aedan whispered in his ear. "He had three older brothers. He would have never inherited but for his mother killing them all. Three boys, just for a Bannon.” 

Alistair didn't know what to say to that.

"They'll see you dead for being Maric's son. If they can't use you, you're in their way. They won't act immediately but a year from now, maybe less, I'll find you dead in bed, hung in the cellars or disappeared without a trace."

He started, knowing what was coming next, knowing that he had to stop Aedan, stop him from talking.  

"Listen," Aedan hissed. "I'm trying to keep you _safe_."

"I didn't ask for protection." Alistair protested.

"You're getting one anyway." Aedan decided. "I'll be your paramour. I'll be your dog."

And there, Alistair wanted to say that was good enough. But he knew it wasn't. He'd still be married to Anora. He would still have to visit her bed every night until there was a child. If there was a child. 

Grey Wardens were never a fertile lot. He didn't know what the Archdemon had done with her dying words. He doubted anything good. The tattoos on his right arm could mean something or nothing at all.

"I love you Alistair. I suspect I always will. But I cannot accept your," Aedan breathed hard and steeled himself, pulling his spine straight like he was holding it to a ruler. "Proposal. Thank you for your consideration..."

"There is nothing to consider." Alistair pleaded. "We'll run away together. Tonight. To Orlais. No one will look for us there." 

Aedan shook his head curt but apologetic. "I must rescind my claim."

" _Please_." 

And for the first time since he was a little boy, Alistair wept. 

 

“Is it done?”

Dawn found Aedan in his room, gripping the silk curtains as a drowning man might straw. The simple victory of the Blight's end had filtered away, leaving him used and frayed like a child's moppet. He felt sick. There was something wrong with him. Maybe he had taken too hard a blow during the final battle. A piece of bone that had broken off. Or an arrowhead tumbling in his guts. Wynne couldn't fix this. No mage could. An hour ago his cheeks had run wet with salt. Now it was bone dry, cold as though carved of stone. 

Hyak wrinkled his muzzle and growled when the arl failed to leave. The tiger-striped mabari heaved himself onto his enormous feet. But the Arl of Redcliff was not a man to be cowed by such displays. He stood staunch in the doorway even as Aedan politely refused him. After all, Aedan was raised a teyrnling, second only behind the Feralden royal family. Arls were but of many, even ones as capable as Eamon.

But he did not wish to suffer the arl's presence longer than he had too. He unraveled the silk from his fist and smoothed it down. They hung limp in the pre-dawn air. He had ruined them. The wrinkles would never come out. 

"It is done." Hyak flattened his ears against his skull. “I will not forget this.”

“No.” Eamon said thoughtfully as he stepped aside. “I don’t suppose you will.”

 


	2. Act II. Devoir

“Why the long face? It’s time for celebration no?"

Hyak perked his ears up.

“Zevran,” Aedan greeted as the Antivan rogue swaggered up to the pews. As the Teyrn if Highever and the first of Feralden nobility, he and Fergus were granted seats closest to the king. Close enough they could hear the Reverend Mother praise the Maker and his children, Andrest and her sacrifice, as he sat listening with a disaffected expression, the heroes of the Fifth Blight, dragon slayers, saviors.

A golden hand spread over the bride and groom with blessings of health and prosperity, wisdom for Alistair and fertility for Anora. The look Anora shot the Reverend Mother could have flayed a man alive but only they were close enough to notice. Anora was no fool. She knew better than anyone what it would take to keep her place as queen-consort. In that at least, they were in accord. Alistair was safe. For now.

His smile grew brittle around his teeth and he turned to lean briefly on his brother's gold-threaded epaulettes. Fergus allowed it with a raised eyebrow when Zevran appeared, swaggering out of the shadows to shoo Hyak out of the way. 

Hyak slinked under the pews, happy enough on the cool stone floor. 

“You." His brother addressed the rogue without turning. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were besotted.” 

“Ah but you do know better.” Zevran replied. “And what kind of a person would I be if I did not take full advantage?”

Zevran pressed against him like a question mark. One of his wheat-yellow braids came loose and rested on the side of his jaw. It was heavier than he would have guessed. Clasped silver and smelling like sassfras and elfroot.

“You know there can’t be anything.” He said quietly as though in a confessional.

“I know.” Zevran winked with a generous smile. “I can wait."

Thet were exchanging bows. Anora was beautiful in spring green and gold but Alistair outshone his bride. Someone had managed to brush his hair down and trim the scruff on his chin. Dressed him as a king rather than the shy warden he first knew. 

“I just want him to be safe.”

“You are entirely too soft _vhenan_.” Zevran mused. “And to think that you wanted to be a Crow.”

“It sounded cool.” Aedan admitted with a shrug.

“You are a Grey Warden. That is an occupation dangerous enough.”

Mirth tugged at his lips.

Aedan jumped when he felt the lash of Alistair’s glare on the back of his head. He couldn't have said how he knew. Only that he'd been aware of the other man's presence ever since they were separated. Pared from each other like pulling skin off an unripe fruit. 

“He’s watching isn't he?" Aedan groaned.

“Let him wonder.” Zevran purred, knocking their heads together. Fergus grimly ground his disapproval against his ribs. “Let him see what he has missed out.”

 

Aedan looked radiant.

These were not the most appropriate thoughts for a wedding per se. Especially when Aedan wasn’t the person he wasn’t marrying and the person he was marrying was standing in front of him with a gold veil shrouding her face. Apparently, white was an irony even the Chantry had a hard time stomaching.

Everyone was in the kingdom was here to witness the wedding of a century between two people who didn’t even like each other. Anora, who wedded once and found it wanting. And him, Alistair, who didn’t want to marry her. But the person whom he had wanted to marry didn’t want to marry him and no one was marrying Aedan if he could help it because Fergus Cousland’s face looked like they should have thrown him head-first at the Archdemon and no one would have died.

Maker, he had to give his new, wife-to-be this if nothing else. She had nerves of steel if she could pretend so serenely she wanted to be married off to a bastard half-brother of her dead husband.

Anora was a familiar face. _Which was good_ —Arl Eamon had emphasized repeatedly as he was being refitted into Cailan's armor which had been their father's armor and his father's armor before him.

And because she was female.

He scowled and she scowled back, warning him to look merry or else.

The Revered Mother cleared her throat.

Right, kiss the bride. It was very chaste. Like kissing the air above a lady’s hand. Very formal. He doubted Anora wanted anyone pawing at her.

But he shuddered at the calculating gleam in her eyes.

Blight take all, he should have just put her aside as a dowager princess to take a new bride. Not that he placed arbitrary values on purity and virginity or the lack of. But he didn’t like her. He didn’t meant to. She seemed like a strong, ambitious, and capable partner. But from where he was standing, she was an obstacle. She was in the way.

Briefly, he wondered how she felt about marrying her father’s murderer.

Whatever. They were married. Bound in the eyes if thr Maker who saw all. Andraste, his mortal bride, in all their glory. The pact was signed and sealed. Too many witnesses for him to shout that the marriage was a sham.

The guests all got up towards the Grand Hall for the feast. The Couslands, Teyrns of Highever, led the processing at the head of Feralden nobility. Alistair’s lips flattened when he saw Zevran stalk Aedan.

Indignation swelled. Aedan had _promised_.

But then so had he.

It was just that, they were miserable together and then the elf sauntered in to snatch the first real smile he’d seen on Aedan’s face in days. Hyak, Aedan’s great mabri hound, panted joyously and danced around the elf's knee before disappearing around a pillar.

He slumped when the elf took Aedan's elbow.

Anora cleared her throat.

“Something the matter dear?” He asked carelessly. “A toad in your throat?”

And immediately froze as Anora laughed, lifting the tension.

“Sit up Alistair,” She coached. “You must set an example for the people.”

“My dear, one look at you and you’ll have templars asking for pointers.”

At least, Anora had some sense of humor.

But watched Aedan. He took his seat at the head of a long dinner table and still, his eyes rested on Aedan.

When dinner was over and people were starting to mingle, Alistair decided to go to him. As a friend. They were friends. Friends talked to each other.

Seeing the direction he was heading, Anora raised a hand and said, “Alistair.”

Alistair did not stop.

“Just going to have a little chat with my friends—we saved the world you know.”

The others welcomed him warmly. Of course they did. He wasn’t at fault. It was no one’s fault except Aedan and—who did he think he was. Protecting him. He wasn’t the son of a nobleman sheltered at birth. His idea was roughing it was probably sleeping in his armor—

“Alistair.” Aedan said and it was dangerous. He could feel his resolve wear away like butter against whetstone. Aedan stared at him like he was the only person in the world and from behind him, Leliana gave him a look of sympathy.

“Wonderful reception.” Aedan said diplomatically.

At least, Alistair thought, Aedan wasn’t reverting to ‘your highness’ nonsense.

“Not as wonderful as you.” he blurted out.

Oops.

Wynne smiled beatifically at the innocence of youth. The Teyrn of Highever looked like he was about to summon lightning with the force of his mind and was that a flash of metal in Zevran’s hand?

“May I speak to you?” He asked, feeling oddly hesitant. “Please.”

 

Alistair was married.

Alistair was safe and that was the important thing. He wouldn’t die in the line of duty. With the darkspawn taint in him, he certainly wouldn’t die of old age, but with Feralden’s best mages at his beck and call, he would be fine. They had beaten worse odds. And for him, it was good enough that everyone was alive. The blight was over. Alistair was on the throne. He’d found his brother—he had everything he wanted.

Except.

The night after the engagement, he had nightmares.

It was expected that he would have nightmares. It used to be a garden variety of disappointing his father to being left behind by his older brother. His nephew’s death overlapping with Connor’s. Alistair’s face when he spurned his love. The dead rising. The Archdemon.

“No,” He said, soft in denial. “You’re dead. We killed you.”

In his dreams, the marks on his left arm burned like veins of lyrium beneath the Free Marches. He clawed at his wrist, half expecting for it to flake off in a fistful of ashes under his nails. He drew blood but the mark remained. 

The Archdemon’s bulbous yellow eyes opened.

It was dying. Entrails burst from its side as it heaved for breath. Aedan was reminded of drake eggs in the mines of Orzammar, soft and leathery, burst open when Oathkeeper cleaved it in two.

With her dying breath, she cursed—“ _You will sire no children. Your women will be barren. No children, children, children_.”

Aedan woke up sticky between his thighs. His cock hard.

What a twisted mind he had, he marveled. But he couldn’t help but touch himself. An experimental stroke from cock to tip. It wasn’t quite the same as being with another person. He’d lied to Alistair, caught in Eamon’s solemn gaze. Alistair had been devastated.

He pushed his shoulders into the feather mattress as his spine arched.

If Alistair so desired it, Aedan would be his bed slave. A paramour with no lover.

Alistair deserved more.

Alistair deserved everything.

 

There first night wasn’t so bad. It was just duty in a long line of duties. There was no pleasure in it. Nobles, he was told, didn’t marry for pleasure. Imagine that.

Anora did not seem to mind.

He spent himself with a soft grunt and when the deed was done, she rolled away, within reach but clearly unreceptive. Sweat cooled on his body leaving him chilled. He longed for Aedan and the thought sickened him because really. There was a lady, probably gave Morrigan a run for her purses on that count, but still a lady just a palm-width away, and he was thinking of the very best thing that had ever been taken away from him.

He almost ran into his guard in his haste to escape.

“Is everything alright your highness?”

The guards were in Gwaren’s colors. A pale yellow dragon on a black banner. He supposed they were there for Anora’s protection.

“Have you been here the entire time?” He asked scandalized. The guards did not bat an eye.

“I need air.” Alistair said gruffly and pushed past the men to the stables where horses nickered sleepily in reply.

The stable lad, suddenly alert, stammered his apologies that he hadn’t a charger ready and Alistair stared down pityingly, wondering how many nobles came by at this hour in flagrant disregard of manners.

“I need.” He started, voice suddenly stuck when he saw the horses and the open door.

The stable lad looked upon him eagerly, waiting for orders.

“I need.”

 

“Aedan?”

He faltered in his step. His foot went out from under him and he fell, body crashing onto the floor as though he’d been dropped from a great height.

“I’m alright.” He gasped even as his arms shook. Fergus, cursing, pulled off his embroidered nightgown and threw it over Aedan’s head. “It’s fine. Fergus. I’m fine.” But he shook, even as he said so, struck by a feeling of loss so great and profound he couldn’t get up after, not until his brother pulled him to his feet as though he was a child in need of minding. A little boy lost in the woods again.

“Stand straight Aedan.” Fergus said gruffly. “Breathe.”

“I’m trying.” He admitted. “I’m trying.”

Guards came to their aid, borrowed ones, none from Highever because they were dead, Ser Gilmore died defending him, but Fergus dismissed them with an impatient wave. His older brother's massive hands clapped hard on his left arm and with a start he realized that the burning wasn't restricted to the line of nerves in his flesh. Light began to seep through the flimsy cloth.

"Can you control this?" Fergus demanded, leaving off the question as to how he had come to carry the marks in the first place. He didn't think that his brother would be pleased to know that Alistair had the same brand on his opposite arm. "No? Come, we shall retire."

He keened, soft with grief. The sound stopped at his teeth but his swift-eyed brother missed nothing. Fergus' red beard tickled his ear.

“If you wish to leave, I will not stop you. But remember, you’re the teyrling of Highever. It is you who comes after me. That is not nothing pup.”

In delirium, the words didn’t quite register. Fergus put a palm against the side of his neck and he leaned into it. Wanting to keep it there. They only had each other.

“You’ve grown so much since I last saw you.”

“I am no longer the least.” Aedan agreed. He held a breath and fortified himself until the pain receded to the back of his mind. He was the teyrnling of Highever. This was nothing.

"No pup, never." 

Slowly, his brother peeled back the leather and silk, grimaced at the marks branded black in his skin. 

"Now, what have you done this time?"


	3. Act III. Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No shenanigans in this one. Omg, is that a plot I see forming?

They stayed only as long as propriety allowed.

Alistair had a kingdom to run. After what happened, Fergus was all too eager to get Aedan away from the court. Arl Eamon’s star was rising. Having fostered Alistair in his youth, the Arl had positioned himself as the hand of the king. His first degree had been to pardon Gwaren and its allies, mending the relationship between Ferelden’s king and queen.

It was a brilliant move. Anora had been made to kneel stony-faced before her father’s killer, exonerated of all involvement regarding Ostagar.

Aedan had to excuse himself as the clapping started. His arm had begun to burn. The bright sigils twisted themselves into his skin. He imagined that beneath the armor of white steel, Alistair too had begun to blister at the wrist. Fergus had taken one look at his sweaty face and marched him back to his chambers to be put to bed like a babe.

At any rate, they had a Teyrnir to rebuild and a family to bury.

The funeral was presided over empty caskets.

They never found the bones. Not his father’s, his mother’s, Oriana or even little Oren. Not even a scrap of silk on the kitchen floor. Everything had been swept clean. The bodies, broken crates and spoiled food. Blood had been scrubbed from stone. Fire danced on green branches. The walls smelled of lye. Fergus had stripped the banner of House Howe and ripped it in two.

Aedan said, “I shouldn’t have killed him.”

“No.” Fergus agreed. “But I don’t blame you.”

“Fergus.”

“Yes pup.” And Fergus placed a hand on top of his head, leaning against a broken window as Aedan sat just beneath.

“Don’t die.”

His brother did not say anything for a while.

“Of course.”

Aedan decided that when he died, his funeral would be a private affair. Bann Gilroy expressed his condolences while pushing his daughter, a dainty, fair-haired Jeyne his way. He smiled politely before turning away. He’d spotted Bann Guerrin earlier. No doubt attending in his brother’s place. To his surprise however, Bann Guerrin was accompanied by another. A much welcomed guest.

“Warden.” Leliana greeted impertinently, sweeping back folds of black to do a little curtsy. When she lifted her dress, he saw that her shoes were of velvet. Lace trimmings at her ankles. “The king sends his condolences.”

“My thanks.” He said, taking her hand.

Leliana fit snugly at his side. Jeyne threw her a poisonous look as he was led away. He would have to watch out for that one.

“You are unwell.” She tutted. “Alistair has a crate of white shear in his wine cellar. I shall send for some and perhaps that will put color in you.”  

“Alistair’s the king. He needs it more than I do.”

Leliana sighed.

“He drinks it like it is butterbile.” And at that Aedan winced. Leliana poked him in the side. “There are many things he needs to learn. You should be at his side.”

“He has council more qualified than I.”

“Ah but you are Crookytail to his Garahel.” She countered, referencing the hero of the Exalted Age. “Unlikeliest of heroes—a nobleman’s second son and a royal bastard.”

“It doesn’t seem as heroic when you put it like that.” Aedan pointed out.

Leliana laughed.

“If you would like a tale of heroism, you only need to ask. Let’s see. Long ago...”

 

Things were quiet after the funeral.

Once the vultures had flown off, Fergus barked at everyone to get the castle in working order. Whenever he caught sight of his brother, he stuffed him full of meats and wine until he no longer looked so hollow-eyed and starved like a conscript fresh off the frontlines. Or Maker-forbid, ghouls that had hunted him through the Korcari Wilds.

But of course, peace did not last long. Such as it was. Arl Eamon was dissatisfied with their word. With Teyrnir Gwaren all but forfeited to the crown, the Couslands again remained the most powerful of Ferelden nobility after the royal family.

The first time Bann Gilroy of West Hill had brought up the topic of remarriage, he had been revolted. He would not sully Oriana’s memory by describing their marriage as a love match. Like Alistair, their marriage had been one of political necessity. But he had loved her as best he could. They had been married for ten years. They had a son.

Aedan said, when he found Fergus staring into what had been Oren’s room,

“You have time yet to marry brother and be merry.”

“Aye pup, but it would break my heart.”

But he could not in good conscious dismiss the notion entirely. Highever was recovering from the sacking of the castle. His brother had made an enemy of Arl Eamon; His brother was King Alistair’s lover.  

If anything, it made more sense for Aedan to marry. He half-heartedly arranged meetings with Banns with heiresses of eligible age. None seemed to catch Aedan’s fancy. Some, his brother found delightful. Others he found to be frightfully dull.

He looked for Aedan. Disconcerted when he was not there. The awkward little boy who had once scampered after him like a hound pup had grown. Sleek and muscled an otter. As loyal as a mabari.

Hyak drooled lovingly on the floor.

The mabari had been a consolation prize when Fergus was gifted a warhorse.

Somehow he thought that Aedan had gotten the better end of the bargain.

“Thank you for watching over him.”

Hyak woofed and rolled onto his back.

The first missive had come by a bird. A raven with a note tied to its sticky feet. Hyak had been trying to bury it in the courtyard.

The second bird was slightly more successful. One of Aedan’s companions, a giant stone golem, squashed it when it landed on her shoulders.

The third missive had come by a quaking bannerman who begged his pardon and was lucky to escape the castle dungeons.

The fourth was carried by Bann Teagan.

“No.” Fergus said, receiving him into the hall.

“You can’t refuse a royal decree your lordship.” Bann Teagan said weakly.

Fergus shooed a servant girl away from where she’d been trying to blot out a burn near the fireplace. If she wanted coin, she needed to work for it. Not skulk around in plain sight.

“It’s not from the king. It’s from your brother. Last I checked, I outranked arls.”

“My lord, be reasonable.”

To make matters worse, Teagan had gotten hold of Aedan and Aedan seemed to agree.

“If this will keep the Arl’s mind at ease.” Aedan said.

“I said no. You are my little brother pup. It is you who comes after me. You will one day be the Teyrn of Highever—“

“Aye and a loyal subject of the king.”

Fergus looked at his brother. Really looked at him. Saw the pallor of his skin. The way his freckles had smoothed back into his flesh. The bags under his eyes. His fine fingers—womanly, their tutor said, the bones of his wrists and drake skin around his left wrist.

Aedan had been a surprise. Thirteen summers had passed before a cradle had been set up in a room next to his. He remembered how his mother’s belly had swelled, her eyes softening from bright summer to autumn.

Her pregnancy had been easy and they had expected a girl. Fergus, apparently, had not been as considerate. Aedan Cousland had been born 9:14, squalling and pink. A boy and a second son to the Cousland line. He had immediately been supplanted as his mother’s favorite. Fergus was raised to be the heir. Aedan, she could spoil to her heart’s content.

A year ago, Aedan would have stayed. The dutiful second son. A teynling to Highever. A year ago, Aedan had not known tragedy and heartbreak.

Teagan sighed in relief and Fergus shot him a glare to shut him up. The bann took the hint and with his message delivered, retreated quickly to the guest rooms.

“If the king asks, I must obey.” Aedan said and Fergus put a hand on the side of his brother’s face, holding him there as he might an unruly pup.

“You will send birds.”

“Every week.” Aedan promised.

Fergus kissed him fiercely on the forehead.

“Be safe, you are all that I have left.”

And it was true.

“I will.”

 

Vigil’s Keep was just as how he remembered it.

Arl Rendon Howe had been something of a connoisseur. He had patronized many fine buildings throughout Amaranthine. From private mansions to chantry chapels and their sunburst windows. Vigil’s Keep was a symbol of Ferelden victory over Orlais. Aedan remembered the keep and its gold banners. King Maric had granted Howe the honor of hosting his thirty-fifth birthday. There had been much food and festivities. Now the keep would play host to Grey Wardens.

Leliana stared dreamily as they followed the fortress walls.

“Vigil’s Keep is one of the oldest settlements in Ferelden—maybe the world. It was built by the Avvars to stop the Tevinter invaders. It is said that they befriended the dwarves who lived under the stone. Can you believe it?”

“Warden.” Bann Esmerelle was waiting at the gates, dressed in a resplendent gown of red and copper. Emeralds clasped her throat. She was surrounded by a retinue of guards and servants. Her expression was carefully cold.

Lord Guy stood behind her fidgeting like a mare in heat. Aedan’s mount, a chestnut gelding, pinned its ears back in annoyance. Aedan tugged on its mane before dismounting.

The others followed.

Bann Esmerelle was a known supporter of Arl Howe. But she was the wealthiest and the most powerful of Banns in Amaranthine. He could not afford to slight her.

Aedan bowed in acknowledgement of her rank, his breath ghosting over the rubies on her fingers.

The Bann withdrew wearing a frosty smile. She had expected more from this encounter. He stared at her baldly. He was still the teyrnling of Highever and his brother’s heir. That was not nothing. He had played this game since he was all of five summers old.

“Bann Esmerelle, thank you for having us.”

“Yes. I am told you will have the Keep.”

Leliana said nothing but he could feel her amusement radiate across his back.

He handed the reins over to a stable lad and tossed him a coin. The gelding had ridden hard from Highever with nary a complaint. He would have the beast comfortable. A good horse was hard to find.

“By the king’s orders.” He reminded her. “The king wishes to rebuild the Ferelden Grey Wardens to former glory and has named me Warden-Commander.”

The Bann’s eyes widened provocatively.

“Such responsibility. After all, the last Ferelden Warden-Commander was executed for her designs on the throne was she not?”

His guards bristled at the insult.

“I assure you my lady, my intentions are rebuild. Would the people not feel secure knowing that the Wardens are one of their own? We have had problems with Orlesian wardens in the past.”

“True enough.” Lord Guy commented. “Damn frog-eaters.”

“Frog legs are quite the delicacy in Orlais. Roasted lightly over fire with a pinch of salt.” Leliana said mildly.

Bann Esmerelle turned her gaze on the bard.

“And who is your companion Lord Cousland?”

“This is Leliana. You may remember her as a hero of the Fifth Blight.”

“Of course.” Bann Esmerelle curtsied lightly. “Amaranthine is grateful for your service Lady Leliana.”

“If there are no pressing matters at hand Lady Esmerelle, I would have my men rest. It’s been a long journey.”

Bann Esmerelle nodded.

“This way my lord. Everything has been prepared for your arrival. I trust you will find everything satisfactory.”

 

“Brr.” Leliana said in the safety of his room. “Perhaps I could write her an invitation to Val Royeux. Her shoes—terrible.”  

“The nobles would eat her alive.” Aedan said absentmindedly. “Bann Esmerelle has money and power. It has made her somewhat heavy-handed in recent years.”

“Ah, but money can open many doors.” Leliana said slyly. “And loosen just as many tongues.”

Aedan looked up.

“Zevran, when did you get here?”

“You need someone to keep you on your toes. You left poor Zevran in Denerim.”

“I gave him a job. I trust them not to stab each other in the back.”

Leliana made a thoughtful noise.

“Yes, Zevran is well-versed in the dance of intrigue. Alistair on the other hand is Ferelden. Very forward.”

“Duncan should have made you the Grey Warden.” Aedan said ruefully. He spread a map across the bed. “The darkspawn wouldn’t have stood a chance against you.”

“Your story tells better. Now, I believe there was something you wished to show me?”

 


End file.
